Friend or Foe?

Ignoring my apparent irritation, Chase lowers himself slowly onto the toilet lid, puts his head in his hands and doesn't talk. I frown at him, trying not to show how nervous I am that he's genuinely hurt, as I quickly wash my hands, then snap on some gloves, and tear open a sterile pad to mop him up.

"Chase?" I'm in front of him by the time he lifts his head out of his hands. And when he sees me there, holding the white cotton, he swallows and nods, and sits up straight, but he's stiff and wary. Like there's something he doesn't want me to touch.

That must have been some punch, he's acting like every move hurts.

I put a hand under his chin and tip it up so I can look at his pupils. They're even, but he grimaces like the light's hurting them, so I let his chin go and turn his head to press the pad against the blood that's dripping down his face.

He closes his eyes and his shoulders drop. But lines on his brow don't ease up. What isn't he letting on?

"Thanks for getting in his way," I mutter. "Ember was scared." What I can't bring myself to say is the part about him being brave when everyone else backed off. And how I never doubted he'd stop the guy. A thought that makes me squirm, so I push it away and dab harder at Chase's cut.

Chase grunts, hisses through his teeth.

I frown harder, pretending I'm pissed at him for helping, instead of at the guy who might have killed him. Or somebody else. "You shouldn't have looked back at us. First rule of combat—never take your eyes off your enemy."

How's that for an analogy for life. I want to crack the joke, but the words die in my throat when Chase opens his eyes and fixes them on mine.

"It was reflex."

There's something else. A thought he swallows back. I focus on his wound so I don't have to think about what it might have been. Who it might have been about. What he might be implying--stop it, Kate!

I press the pad harder against his cheekbone and grab his hand, bring it up. "Hold that there. As hard as you can stand."

Chase winces, but nods. When his hand's in place, his shoulders slump and he closes his eyes. But he holds the pad where I showed him. I poke through the first aid kit.

"You know first aid?" he murmurs.

"Yeah, it was part of my first rehab." When he opens his mouth again, I talk loud and fast so he doesn't interrupt. "Sterilizing wipes. Those'll sting. Butterfly tape. Arnica for the bruising. I think we've got what we need."

Chase nods and breathes deeply, the way I do when I'm sick to my stomach.

Nausea's a symptom of concussion.

"Does your head hurt?" I say as I unpeel the foil packet from an alcohol wipe.

"No. Mostly my face," he mutters. But I don't like the way he keeps his eyes closed.

"You need to say if you feel sick or anything. If you've got concussion the medics need to see you right away."

"Okay."

"I'll wipe the cut clean before I put some butterfly wraps on it to keep it closed, okay? Can you turn so you're facing the light—?" I put my free hand on the back of his shoulder and push in the direction I mean.

Chase cries out and jerks away from the pressure, then freezes, trembling.

I freeze, nailed to the floor. "Chase, what—?"

He curls one big arm across his chest, cupping the great paw of a hand over his ribs and leaning forward over it. "It'll be fine. He cracked my rib, I think," he says through his teeth.

"Why didn't you say something?"

Chase sighs. "Because I've cracked ribs before. I know there's not a lot they can do except strap it. So there was no point."

"No point, my ass. Why do men have such a pathetic fixation on being manly and pretending they don't get hurt?" I grab the hem of his shirt, but he swats me away, then hisses through his teeth.

I straighten, put my hands on my hips. "Broken ribs can puncture a lung. You need to let me see if there's a hematoma or anything—"

"Hema-what?"

"It's like a giant blood-blister. A bruise so bad that it puts pressure on everything around it. Trust me, you don't want one over a broken rib."

"It'll be fine. I'll let the medics take a look when they're done—"

"Liar. If you won't tell me you're hurt, you won't tell strangers." I take a deep breath and try to soften my voice. "Chase, let me lift your shirt up. Please?"

Chase snorts, then grimaces. But the pain doesn't stop him rumbling, "Are you trying to steal my virtue, Kate?"

Chase is . . . flirting?

"I'm trying to make sure you won't keel over on me—I'm not strong enough to keep you on that throne if you pass out," I snip to make sure he knows I'm completely unaffected by the idea of his shirt off.

The lines in his forehead get deeper. "I —"

"For goodness sake, I'm trying to be nice to you! Can you please let me lift your shirt so I can see what your ribs look like?"

Chase eyes lock on mine like he's crawling inside my head. And even though I want to tear away from that look, I'm caught. Pinned.

I clear my throat and level an eyebrow at him.

He sighs—his breath catching when he sucks in too fast—and moves the hand that was cupping his ribs.

I grab the hem of his t-shirt on the side, under his arm which he raises slowly, grimacing as he goes. I can feel the heat from his skin, even though the gloves. My face flushes. And that makes me even madder, so I have to work at being gentle as I roll the t-shirt up and try to get it high enough to see the hurt ribs without raising his elbow any further.

The skin over his ribs is lighter, smoother than the skin on his face and arms. But I don't have time to admire it because there's a black cloud over his ribs, and it's spreading. I roll the t-shirt up an inch further, then push some of the shirt off his back to make more room—

I suck in a breath in the same second Chase snaps, "Not my back!" and flinches away from me—immediately grasping the arm to his side, and breathing fast, too light.

I'm left stunned and gaping.